


Not Enough Whiskey

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And More Monsters, Angst and Romance, Basically Brokeback Minus the Death and the Mountains, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s15e07 Last Call, Flashbacks, Headcanon, Hunters & Hunting, John Winchester Being an Asshole, M/M, Young Dean Winchester, non-descriptive violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: He slams the car in reverse as they start running towards them.One fires a gun. The first shot ricochets off the front window, shattering it. The second flies straight into Dean’s line of vision.Or, what was.
Relationships: Lee Webb & Dean Winchester, Lee Webb/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 17





	Not Enough Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingmyowndestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmyowndestiel/gifts).



> Because I can't be the only one that noticed the immense sadness in Lee's eyes when he and Dean were talking. This is my take on what happened that night in Arizona.
> 
> For Jami, who probably would've had an aneurysm if I didn't write this. And probably is anyway reading this.

“There's not enough whiskey in the world tonight

Not enough whiskey for you to see the light

Not enough whiskey to make it all alright

It’s time for you to say goodnight…”

_Present Time_

“I’m sorry, man.”

Dean hesitates before his head forms a small nod. “Yeah, I appreciate that.”

“I always liked that crusty son of a bitch,” Lee remarks with a tiny smirk.

Dean laughs, but it’s cut short by a memory he left behind in a cloud of dust…

-

_1999_

**Colorado City, Arizona**

It hits him like a well-aged whiskey, sucking the air out of his throat and riddling his tongue with goosebumps. It's bitter, too, at first—a combination of the sharp intake of air and the press of unfamiliar lips. Then, when he responds, it's smoother, soothing his singed tongue. So he does what he’d do with any whiskey; he grips him tighter, pulls him impossibly closer to his lips, and drinks without care or consequence.  
  
Lee laughs. Dean pulls away like a moth stung by a flame.  
  
"I've heard the rumors," he says after a beat, swiping his thumb across his swollen bottom lip, "but usually the legend dies with the story."  
  
Dean laughs too, turning his attention back to the open field. "I think we're properly drunk."  
  
Not even the low hum of the Impala's engine can drown out the deafening silence that fills the car. When Lee shifts in the passenger's seat, it sounds like a shotgun blast.  
  
Dean takes another swig of his beer. As he sets it down, it knocks against the handle that controls the headlights. Every hooded face in the field swivels.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
He slams the car in reverse as they start running towards them.

One fires a gun. The first shot ricochets off the front window, shattering it. The second flies straight into Dean’s line of vision.

Or, what was.

“ _No_.” Keeping one trembling hand on the steering wheel, Dean reaches out with the other to shake Lee. When his slumped over, bleeding body doesn’t respond, he shakes harder. “Lee. Lee! C’mon, man, wake up!”

He presses his fingers to the side of his neck. He’s cold, but he’s still kicking.

There’s no absence of noise now. There’s the rev of the engine as Dean hits the gas. There’s the muffled _pop_ of the tires rolling over chunky gravel. There’s the glass beneath them, sliding across the dashboard and the leather interior with every bump, no doubt carving new scars into his legs.

And over it all, the heavy pound of his heart.

Suddenly, he prefers the silence.

He’s not just upset; John’s outright livid. It’s a fury that stops Dean, at twenty, dead in his tracks every time. He’ll slice the head clear off a vamp, wrestle with a werewolf, and shoot a Wendigo without hesitation. But John Winchester’s ire is a whole different kind of monster—one Dean isn’t sure how to kill yet.

“Well what the hell are you doing?! Get him in here!”

Snapping out of his trance, Dean rushes to the passenger’s side and hauls Lee out. He’s barely conscious—that’s what a bullet through the head will do to someone—but he manages to blink blearily up at John, who throws his limp arm around his shoulder, and utter, “My fault.”

“You got that right.”

“Dad!”

“Don’t ‘Dad’ me, son,” John threatens with a finger that may as well be a gun. He uses his other hand to prop up Lee on his bed. “Grab the alcohol, the knife, and the floss. _Now!”_

_Back to Present Time_

Raising his beer after a pause, Lee says, “To John Winchester.”

“Hey,” Dean says with the _clink_ of their glass, “thank you.”

Some things, he thinks as he downs his fourth beer, will always taste a little bitter.

**Author's Note:**

> Song credit: 
> 
> "Not Enough Whiskey" - Kiefer Sutherland


End file.
